


4:04 Error Morals Not Found

by RadioMoth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: A Lot of Fucking Blood, Biting, Blood, Dave is Definitely Into It Ok, Implied Consent, Incest, M/M, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioMoth/pseuds/RadioMoth
Summary: There’s no system of measurement for your brother’s strangeness, especially not when he Comes Home Late.





	4:04 Error Morals Not Found

**Author's Note:**

> Some sort of weird homestuck/hotline miami mashup AU bullshit fuck if i know dude
> 
> required listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaqBrW2vSUY

_ 4:04 am. _

 

You don’t know what Bro does for a living.  

 

_ 4:05 am. _

 

It’s late but you don’t sleep well without him in the house anyways; you’re on the couch, another shitty movie in a long string of shitty movies playing on the television as you mess around on your laptop, the only light the bright, flashing fluorescence of the screens in front of your face. Your fingers shake as you tap on the keys because you know tonight is going to be one of  _ those _ nights, and you don’t know whether the thought scares you or excites you more. 

 

_ 4:07 am. _

 

You can’t help but count the seconds as they tick by, a steady  _ one-two-three-four _ in the back of your mind as you mix beats and tap out slow responses to whatever friends are still awake at this hour; each minute slides through your body and mind and turns the key to the muscles along your spine, tensing you up bit by bit because the later Bro comes home the worse he usually is, and by worse you mean-- well. You don’t know what you mean. Worse? Better? There’s no system of measurement for your brother’s strangeness, especially not when he Comes Home Late.

 

_ 4:10 am.  _

 

Bro’s never been gone this  _ long  _ before. You can’t help the fear-excitement-nervousness rising in the back of your throat like bile, choking you out as you mix a remix of one of his own tracks; even when trying to focus on something else you can’t help but think of him, think of the way he moves and breathes and how the steady rhythm of his heart is emulated so perfectly in the low, pulsing bass of his melodies. Your fingers tap out the beat of your own pulse and it’s fast and thready, not quite in time with the seconds ticking away in your head; _ when will he be home _ ? When? 

 

Rough swallowing, dry throat; you tip your head back to stare at the ceiling as the music your Bro mixes at the club pounds through your ears, the veins in your temple throbbing with the pressure of your bass-boosted headphones. You want him. You miss him. You’re scared of what he’ll be like when he finally drags himself from whatever the hell he does at 4:13 in the goddamn morning. 

 

You don’t know what your Bro does for a living, and you’re not sure you want to know. 

 

_ 4:18 am.  _

 

You grip your headphones so tight the metal digs into the palms of your hands, press your hands to your ears so hard everything but the hypnotic tones of your brother’s music is drowned out; your eyes slide shut and you don’t even hear the door open. You don’t notice another person in the room till his hands are on you, the sharp scent of blood and leather in your nose, and before you can even open your eyes his hand is clamped over them, blinding you as his body presses against yours. 

 

4:23 am, and he’s finally home. Your body shakes in response to his presence. 

 

“Thought I told you not to wait up,” he rasps, his lips against your throat, something wet smearing over your skin; you suck in a trembling breath and press your hands to his chest and there, the  _ beat-beat-beat _ of his heart, but your hand is wet and sticky and the copper smell of blood burns your nose. You just don’t know whether it’s his or someone else’s. 

 

“I always wait up,” and it’s a testament to his training that your voice hardly wavers, smooth and deadpan as ever; your shift and his palm clamps down tighter over your face, keeping you from seeing him. You don’t know why. You already know what you’re going to see when you open your eyes.

 

“Ain’t you ever heard’a plausible deniability?” he says, and he’s close enough for you to feel his breath against your lips, the rise and fall of his chest pressed against yours; it’s a miracle your hands are still free, and it’s a miracle you take advantage of, sliding your hands over his shoulders and into his messy hair, strands sticky with… something. Your lips part around a gasp as he grips you tighter, tugs you closer; you slide off the couch and into his arms and suddenly he’s pressing you up against the wall, pinning you against it with his broad frame and you’re trapped. 

 

“Bro-”

 

“Shut up,” he hisses, and you swallow your words with a choked little gasp; his hands squeeze tight, repetitively, like he can’t decide whether to clutch you tighter or let you go. You don’t know what you want him to do, either. 

 

“Do it on fuckin’ purpose,” he mumbles, mouthing at your throat, smearing wet over your neck and down your collarbone as he bites and nips and licks at your skin, “I tell ya every time not to fuckin’ wait up, you know I can’t fuckin control myself like this, you  _ know _ \--”

 

You do. And every night he comes home late you’re torn between leaving, getting up and going to your room and letting him deal with himself on his own time, or staying. Staying and letting him touch you, hold you, fuck you till all the frantic energy has worn itself out, leaving him spent and satiated for another night. 

 

And every night he comes home late, you end up not moving. 

 

“ _ Bro, _ ” you say again, except this time it’s a groan and your head is lolling back and you’re arching against him because the rough grip-tug-pull of his hands is lighting your skin on fire in the most pleasurable way possible, because his rasping voice makes you shiver, because the snarl he makes when he shoves you hard enough to bruise against the wall makes you gasp. You’re sick and he’s sick and both your sicknesses  _ turn you on _ , so much so that you can’t even get yourself off anymore- not without him, or thinking of him. Because you’re fucked in the head but so is he, or he wouldn’t come home covered in someone else’s blood multiple nights a week.

 

“Please,” and his hand smears over your face and when you open your eyes he’s there, staring down at you; his shades are black as night and the wetness spattered over his cheek is already fading to the rich, rusty brown of dried blood, his hair matted with it, his shirt stained. You can feel it smudged over your cheek, the bridge of your nose, your eyes; his hands are still wet with it as he shoves them up your shirt and streaks his fingers over your chest, your sides, your stomach, your hips. 

 

“Shut up,” he bites out, then he actually bites, his teeth digging into the thin line of your throat as he claws at your pants, impatient and shaking with need; you can feel the heat and heft of his arousal through his stupid slacks, pressed to your hip, and when you shift against it he snarls again, clamping down hard on your shoulder. His hands slide under your thighs and heave you up and his body practically rams against yours, keeping you pinned against the wall, against him; you clutch at his back and suck in a breath tainted with the scent of blood, and maybe you’re aroused too. 

 

[Maybe, in this context, means definitely.]

 

“Just shut the fuck up, just  _ shut up _ -”

 

The stucco wall digs into your spine but you couldn’t care less as his hands roughly rip at your zipper; in seconds, your pants and boxers are down around your thighs, his grip too-tight around your cock as he savages your throat with his teeth. You’re already hard and the noises that spill past your lips are embarrassing; you can’t even spare the brainpower it would take to try to muffle them. 

 

“Such a fuckin’  _ tease _ -”

 

He holds you up with the weight of his body pinned against your own and not much else, your legs slung around his hips and your arms tight around his shoulders; in seconds, lubed fingers are prying you open and the stretch burns but all you do is gasp and shudder and grind against him as he spreads you too fast, too hard. It’s all you can do; your mind is spinning, the  _ thump-thump-thump _ of your racing pulse in your ears drowning all sounds but your own and the sharp, almost feral noises he makes as two, then three fingers are forced into your ass, one right after the other. 

 

Somehow, his pants are open, his cock hot against your bare thigh, and you tug his hair and press your lips to his and taste blood. 

 

“Just fuck me-” you gasp into his mouth and he bites your lip and slides his tongue into your mouth and kisses you like his life depends on it; his every movement is frantic and fast, rushed, like he can’t believe he’s alive and he can’t believe you’re alive and your body is shaking for it, your breathing shallow and too-fast to match the racing beat of your body’s rhythm. 

 

But he’s too impatient to wait even when he doesn’t have the energy of a thousand suns burning in his every action; his hands smooth over your thighs and hold you up and your skin is tarred with blackened blood, your body jerking against his and a pitiful cry slipping from your lips as he slides inside of you.

 

It hurts, it  _ burns _ but you love it and even if you didn’t he can’t give you the time to adjust anyways; his breath rasps in his throat and ghosts over your as he pushes into you hard, your bodies rocking in tandem as he picks up the pace and soon you’re too full to think, too full to do anything but cry as you throw your head back and arch into him. He’s so hot, against you and inside you and you can’t breathe, hands tugging hard at his matted hair as he pounds you into the wall. Every thrust drives his thick cock right up against your prostate and it feels so good even as it aches, body confused by conflicting signals that everything just loops back around to pleasure again and again and again.

 

He’s muttering into your ear as he fucks into you hard but you can’t understand a word he’s saying and you’re not sure he really does either; when you cast his shades from his face and grip his hair and make him look at you his eyes are wide, pupils dilated like he’s high on something but you don’t think he’s under the influence of anything but bloodlust. He looks half-mad, eyes wild and mouth twisted in an aggressive snarl and face smeared and spattered with blood that isn’t his and there’s a darkening bruise over the arch of his cheekbone; he pins your shoulders to the wall with the flat of his arm and bites and when you come, you don’t even realize it for a moment. 

 

It’s all so much already, his body pressed against yours and his eyes boring into your own and the scent of blood thick in your nose and on your tongue, and it hurts so bad and feels so good and your head is an empty mess of nothing but feeling-reaction and spinning from lack of air because somewhere along the way you forgot to breathe, too concerned with more important things like the way he drags his tongue over your throat and licks the blood from your skin, and the way you aren’t sure if it’s yours or Bro’s or neither. Your hands clutch at his hair and you arch and cry out his name and he just fucks you harder, faster, gasping your name against your throat and scratching his nails over your thighs and marring your skin with a stranger’s blood, the both of you practically bathed in evidence that somewhere, someone isn’t nearly as alive as either of you are. There’s thick cum shot over his stomach and chest and it blends in with the red and rusty-brown already staining his shirt and suddenly you feel him inside you, stiffening up and tensing further and grabbing you so hard you feel bruises blooming over your skin; he holds you still and thrusts into you as he fills you up with his seed, and finally, finally you can breathe again. 

 

The two of you are alive in every way possible, pulses racing and blood pumping and bodies ticking in time with the second hand on the clock, and you know it and he knows it and you can tell he knows by the way his hand settles around your throat, feeling the drumming of your carotid artery against his broad palm. You know he knows it by the way he buries his face in your hair and sucks in a breath as he feels you  _ living _ against him; the two of you slide down to the floor, Bro’s wobbly legs unable to support both your weights- you end up in his lap, his knees pressed against the wall and your back still resting against it. 

 

Slowly, you breathe and he breathes and the two of you breathe in each other’s spaces, and when you close your eyes and tuck your head against his chest he doesn’t shove you away; his hand rests on your head and it’s still tacky with blood but it combs softly through your hair and his heart  _ beat-beat-beats _ against your ear the same way his music does. 

 

There’s blood smeared on the wall, on your skin, on his skin, on both your clothes, but it’s okay. You’ll clean it up later; you always do.


End file.
